


B-Western

by Book_Wyrm



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, Missing Scene, Oneshot, Unwise Usage of Post-Apocalyptic Electricty, and they were ROOMMATES
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27806752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Book_Wyrm/pseuds/Book_Wyrm
Summary: Rick interrupts, “Shane doesn’t like this kind of movie.”“Why not?”“He thinks westerns are just the same thing over and over.”
Relationships: Rick Grimes/Shane Walsh
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	B-Western

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere between _Triggerfinger_ and _18 Miles Out_.
> 
> I once again how a huge thanks to [almadeamla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almadeamla) for beta'ing and cheering me on as I slowly (very slowly) get back into writing after such a long while away. I don't know how else to put it but simply: She's the best.

**:::**

It’s starting to get colder at night. T-Dog, on his way out to relieve Shane and Andrea from their watch shifts at the shed, has wisely brought a jacket, slug over his shoulder, and as he makes small talk with them, he puts it on.

Funny, Shane thinks, how T-Dog can be trusted to handle his shift alone. Funny how everyone else—everyone except Shane himself—can be trusted alone.

He’s been in this mood all night, and all day, and most of the day before. Like someone’s taken a ball of steel wool to his nerves and _scratched, scratched, scratched_. It hasn’t gone unnoticed. Andrea lengthens her stride until she’s almost jogging to outpace him on their way up to Hershel’s house, and doesn’t hold the creaking screen door for him, letting it snap and rattle closed at her back as she lets herself in.

Shane follows. In the kitchen, someone has saved them some dinner on a pair of plates laden with green beans, biscuits, mashed sweet potato, all gone cold. The rest of the group, the rest of Hershel’s family, has moved into the living room, where Glenn’s trying to get an old VHS player to turn on.

Grabbing a plate and fork, Shane goes to watch the small unfolding drama. It’s been a while since anyone dusted behind Hershel’s old eighties-style TV, and Glenn’s guessing and testing which cord plugs into where while Maggie holds a flashlight and Hershel reads aloud the instructions of a weathered manual.

“Can we have popcorn?” Carl asks, and Lori smooths a hand over his hair.

“I don’t think we have any. Maybe next time, okay?”

Rick and Dale are looking seriously over a pair of VHS tapes, debating the merits of each, trading the names of directors, actors, _Oh, this was a good year, I don’t know about this one, have you ever seen…?_ Shane, from the doorway, eyes the cases. Both old westerns.

Of course.

“There!” Glenn exclaims, rocking back on his heels with a laugh. The VHS player has turned on, and the TV’s screen has switched to a different, tighter static. “It’s connected. Did we decide what we’re watching?”

“Another minute,” Rick says, frowning.

From the kitchen, Andrea calls, “Movie night?”

Glenn looks up. “Yeah. “You guys sticking around? We’re watching something good. Or, I mean, I think we are.”

Andrea shrugs. “Well, if it’s between movie night and playing solitaire out in my tent,” she says around a green bean.

But a note of tension has descended on the room following Glenn’s invitation. Beside him, Maggie switches off the flashlight and gets to her feet with her shoulders stiff, gaze on the floor. Glenn’s expression shifts as realizes his mistake.

To spare them the awkwardness, Shane taps his fork against his plate of cold leftovers and says, “Think I’ll just finish this up and turn in early for the night.”

Carl twists around on the couch and opens his mouth to argue—the only one in the whole room who will—but Rick interrupts, “Shane doesn’t like this kind of movie.”

“Why not?”

“He thinks westerns are just the same thing over and over.”

“You start to wonder how many times you’re gonna watch a horse ride past the same mountain,” Shane says, glad for the excuse. It’s true, besides.

Rick hasn’t looked up from the VHSs. “Well, it’s not always the _same_ mountain,” he says, voice even enough, like he’s really not personally offended.

“Same mountain, same saloon, same waterfall, same Mexican church. Some people don’t get tired of it, I suppose.”

“I think we could all do with a little familiarity these days,” Rick says. He passes one of the tapes to Glenn. “Here. This one. It’s a good one.”

Shane finishes his dinner in a hurry, washes up the plate and heads outside to his tent without announcing he’s going. He lays back on his sleeping bag and closes his eyes, but soon opens them again.

Through the thin nylon, through Hershel’s living room curtain and the glass cuts a thin strain of shifting light from the television. There are a few little upticks of noise with gunshots or a swell of music.

Shane knows: Silhouettes, men on horseback galloping past a red mountain. Jaunty music now, so they’re playing poker in a saloon. Someone shooting bottles in the bar, girls screaming. Now the stairs to the second floor are crashing down. Edge of a trumpet, brave men holed up in their final fort. Maybe they’ve worked things out with the Noble Savages—everyone forgives everyone, except everyone who’s died.

Now they’re playing _My Darling_ _Clementine_ , which means she’s figured out who she loved the whole time.

 _I am so sick of that damn song,_ Shane had said once, into the dark hall of a shared apartment.

The bathroom light flicked on and the sink ran at full blast. Rick, speaking around a toothbrush, _Seems I remember buying you a pair of earplugs._

_Was the rest of the movie any good?_

_Yeah. Might’ve been better with John Wayne. Clint Walker did alright, but…_

_You think every movie’d be better with John Wayne._

Rick didn’t deny that. He finished up in the bathroom and flicked off the light, headed off to his bedroom at the end of the hall. Even across the distance, Shane could hear the old springs whining as Rick settled in. Neither of them ever slept with their doors closed.

 _Maybe you can watch it with me some other time,_ Rick had said. _I think you’d like this one._

Footsteps on Hershel’s porch, creaking floorboards. Motion around the tent, lights going out in the house. Quiet voices. Carol and Lori trading quiet _Goodnight_ s. The door of Dale’s RV, the deadbolt sliding into place. A tent zip opens then draws closed again, without a word.

_Yeah. Maybe some other time._

**:::**


End file.
